Wednesday, 6 August 1879

I go with Berthe and her husband to the wedding of Cochery — the minister's son — to Mademoiselle Hunebelle.
The Hunebelles live on the first floor of the house whose mezzanine is occupied by the Boyds; the President of the Republic is one of the witnesses of the marriage, and as Monsieur Putiphar de l'Ariège is the premier dandy of the said French Republic, it is quite natural that I should find him at the door of the house when I come to collect Berthe. We are absolutely chic. Berthe is in white with white lace and mauve satin rosettes.
I am all in white — the Grand Prix hat and a dress of nuns' veil fabric draped in the classical style, but making a ravishing little modern gown thanks to the bodice and a fichu of silk muslin with old Venetian lace. Gloves to the elbow. And I have profaned the little yellow leather shoes that once excited the admiration of Paul de Cassagnac. We arrived at the right moment; we waited for the bride facing Monsieur de l'Ariège, who was waiting for her with the others — grand seigneurs and ladies forming part of the cortège. We watched them all file past, after which the blessing took place, and a rather plain young woman takes up the collection accompanied by Monsieur de l'Ariège, who does not give her his arm but holds her fingertips — which is infinitely graceful and convenient, and if the custom is Republican, the Reactionaries have only to copy it. It caused me to give five francs to the young person. But I finally had a good view of the young man from all sides, and I believe he also saw me. To say the wedding was splendid would be difficult. There were few ladies, and few of them chic — we caused a sensation.
Afterwards we filed past the bridal couple in the sacristy. Then we go to report everything to Mother Gavini. Then we go to lunch at home — Lancaster, Berthe, Blanc and ourselves. Then we go to collect old Gavini, whom we take to the Comédie-Française to discuss a Tuesday subscription.
Unfortunately the end of the day was a washout — rain came and the Bois lost its charms. In the evening to the circus: my aunt, Dina, I, the Gavinis, Berthe; Chaudordy, de Raymond, Géry, and Caro the deaf one, the Empress's cousin.
I had much success with all these old men. I do not forget that Géry is an intimate of the ignoble Jérôme, and I charm him accordingly. Madame Gavini finds me ravishing and keeps asking her old men if they agree. At which everyone laughs. We make witticisms, we even attend to the show, which is interesting. On leaving we go to eat ices at Imoda's. Coming out of the circus I found myself before a mirror and was quite astonished to be so pretty.
As for Berthe, I almost love her, because she is unhappy.
Before leaving she came up to my room and I heard her confession down to the most... intimate things of her domestic life.
Her husband detests her, and she knows it.
He tells her he is unfaithful, and shows her it would be all the same to him if she did the same. What else could one expect from such a filthy man! This will end badly. He speaks to her of nothing but kept women and courtesans; he makes her wear dresses like those women do. And in a thousand other things... it is not she who says so — I can see it myself.
When for the first time this charming husband told the poor woman that he had a mistress, she fainted and stayed in bed for eight days. Now she is becoming accustomed to the idea, and one fine day she will ruin herself. He would be only too pleased. And if she opened her mother's eyes, he would abandon her on the spot. And to think I may perhaps have an equal scoundrel for a husband! No — not the equal of this one, since this particular scoundrel is one of those men one does not marry. He did not want to — it is she who carried him off. The little woman is foolish, but no matter — I pity her. Only it would be wise for me to keep my distance; I foresee catastrophes.